


if the sea were of ink

by orphan_account



Category: Larry Stylinson - Fandom, One Direction (Band)
Genre: All I Want For Christmas Is Love Actually, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Canon Compliant, DECFANFIC, Established Relationship, M/M, Some Humor, Tattoos, but it's good-natured, christmas specials, he got the dagger tho, there is some trading of insults
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-17
Updated: 2014-12-17
Packaged: 2018-03-01 15:25:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2778140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Larry watching the Garfield Christmas Special, 'nuf said.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if the sea were of ink

“So, like, which one am I—Garfield or Jon?”

They’re luxuriating in bed after a full day of appearances, watching holiday programmes on Amazon Instant Video, and Harry’s question makes Louis aspirate beer. When he’s hacked enough of it from his trachea, Louis answers decisively.

“Oh, please. You’re more Jonathan Q. Arbuckle than Jon Fucking Arbuckle himself.”

It’s an American cartoon, but Louis has a private obsession with the sassy orange cat and his oblivious owner.

“Heeeey, why do you say that?” Harry asks, not genuinely affronted, but wanting to appear so. Then he changes tack. “Besides... Thought I was your special little kitten.”

Louis doesn’t fall for the way Harry is nuzzling into him with a sad attempt at purring. Instead, he empties his bottle, lets it topple away from them, and reestablishes some space between their bare bodies. Not much, but it’s enough to momentarily preserve his sanity. “Just look at ‘im, Haz: those curly locks, bells on his toes. That foolish, eager-to-please attitude. He’s proper gagging for an animal's approval.”

Harry mopes exaggeratedly. He may be a people pleaser, however— “‘m not _foolish_.” Receiving naught but a sardonic eyebrow raise in reply, he concedes the point. “Okay, then, maybe I am at times. But that’s the only significant similarity, I would imagine.”

The show has just begun, and Garfield is speaking on the telly, narrating the arrival of his Christmas present from Jon as it’s wheeled in on a forklift. It ends up being a massive contraption, capable of granting any material desire. (In fact, Garfield is in the midst of a dream, though neither he nor the audience know it yet.)

“Listen to how deep Garfield’s voice is, though. Like mine!” Harry will go down swinging. His verbal sparring partner may always win, but Harry is well aware he doesn’t care for an easy victory. “He’s so snuggly, like I am. And, um, motivated by Italian food, like I am, and just… Did I say snuggly? Yeah, that.” To prove it, he crowds Louis on the bed yet again. The other man is running out of space to retreat to, and Harry’s glad. He wants a cuddle, dammit.

Louis doesn’t disagree with Harry’s claims, but when Jon demonstrates the gift-giving machine to Garfield, the cartoon pet owner—given his choice of anything in the world, no limits—wishes up a preposterous hat.

 _“Neat, huh?”_ Jon asks onscreen, regarding the garish accessory.

“Oh my _god_ , that is you to an absolute T.”

Harry pooh-poohs him. “Nunh uh. I call that a Peter Pan hat. Or more like Robin Hood, and we decided I’d be Maid Marion!”

See, it’s a hobby of theirs, assigning characters from film and television to themselves, based on various criteria including personality and physical attributes. It’s the whole reason they’re having this silly disagreement in the first place.

“Yeah, but I’m not the one who’s been wearing a real, actual feathered cap in public,” Louis says, recalling Harry’s attire earlier in the night at their appearance on the 2014 American Music Awards.

“That’s just... a weak argument.”

“You think so, eh? Well.” Louis scrounges around for his iPad, doing a bit of hasty googling once he finds it. He needs more ammunition.

The televised dream sequence is ongoing, but now the opening credits of the special are being presented, set to rolicking background music. Never noticing the words behind him, Garfield utilises the machine to procure all manner of worldly treasure.

He clutches an armload of jewels, announcing, _“Now **this** is what Christmas is all about.”_

_“Things! Stuff! Gadgets! Toys! Greed! Avarice! I love it,”_ Garfield enthuses. It’s true, Harry reasons, that he is unlike Garfield in that respect. Harry’s only request for Christmas this year was socks. It’s also true that Louis is particularly interested in accumulating all the newest technology, but no one could label him greedy. His free and easy spending habits in no way secure him the coveted title of Fat Cat.

Suddenly, Louis’ interrupting his thoughts. “How’s this…” He prepares to read from his tablet. “ _‘Jon wears contact lenses, his eyes are green, and his favourite music style is polka. His personal will states that he wishes to be cremated and have his ashes spread over his accordion.’_ That’s from Wikipedia, and they’re never wrong.”

“I really don’t know what you’re getting at,” Harry deadpans. Come on, he doesn’t even wear contact lenses. Or enjoy polka. Much.

Louis continues blithely, “ _‘He can play accordion, guitar, and bongos, and sing, though his singing and musical skills are far from good.’_ Oh, and _‘Jon also dresses in loud outfits whenever he goes on a date.’_ I’m so clearly Garfield in this scenario.”

“What? Let me have that.” He snatches Louis’ glowing device without a second thought.

Skimming over a list of Jon’s fictional favourites, including colour (red) and type of coffee (decaffeinated, yugh), Harry finds something that makes him hoot. He shares it aloud with uncontained glee.

“ _‘Jon believes in God, or at the very least seems to believe in hell, based on a 1988 strip in which Jon remarks, "You won't think these things are so funny when the devil is sticking his pitchfork into that king-sized hiney of yours" after Garfield steals his steak.’_ ”

Harry pauses to let that sink in. Then he taunts, “Clearly Garfield? Did I hear you say you’re clearly Garfield? Because—” Here he reaches under Louis, takes a goodly handful of arse and squeezes. “KING-SIZED HINEY!”

The red silk topsheet binds them together as Louis thrashes and rolls over. “Fuck you! You love it.”

“I do adore your hiney,” Harry intones, pinning Louis facedown and humping the current object of their discussion. “Fucking love it. Love fucking it.” He’s prepared to ravage Louis’ neck and get something started, but an elbow to the gut derails him right quick. “Oof.”

“Eat shit, you pasty, airheaded, American caricature of a man!”

“God, you’re a mean one,” Harry groans, loosening the bedding from around them and taking his original supine position, propped on three pillows. He feels Louis twist back around and settle next to him. They aren’t quite in contact, though they’re sharing body heat. “Fine, I’ll be Jon,” huffs Harry. It’s a bitter admission, but the advantage is being able to deliver this comeback: “Which makes you my tetchy, obese pet.”

“I very much resent that,” Louis gripes, careful not to take offense. He knows Harry would never intentionally make him uncomfortable about his weight. “Except I find myself liking the pet part.” It’s obvious that Louis wants to get back into Harry’s good graces when he slithers a daring hand over his lover’s exposed chest. “You can pet me anytime, yeah?” He tweaks a nipple, trying to give Harry the type of pain he craves.

“You wish.”

So that’s not happening. Alright.

After a period of quiet, synchronised brooding, they return their attention to the Ultra HD flat screen monitor covering the room’s opposite wall. In spite of the astounding number of pixels composing the display, the 1987 animated film appears dull, primitive. No matter, Louis decides. It’s a classic, and riotously fun.

Having missed about a fourth of the short programme during their antics, Harry and Louis find Garfield, Jon, and Jon’s dog, Odie, transported to the family farm. Jon’s relatives are highly amusing (Doc Boy, the brother, reminding both of them a little of Liam), but especially his nan. She’s a curly-headed matriarch with a biting wit, much like Harry’s real grandmother on the Styles’ side, may she rest in peace. Oh, and Grandma Arbuckle uses great lipcolour.

Following their introduction, Garfield warms to Grandma straightaway, taking up residence in a rocking chair with her.

_“Why hello, Garfield! How did you know I needed a kitty in my lap?”_

_“Wild guess.”_

_“Just listen to ‘em, Garfield, all jawing at once…_ ” she counsels the feline. “ _Crazy, isn’t it? Of course, to make it through this whole life you have to be a bit crazy.”_

_“You said it, Gramma.”_

_“Why, just look at me—I talk to cats! Ha, ha, hah!”_

With much fanfare, Jon’s mother serves Christmas dinner, and the spread is incredible. On the sly, Grandma manages to feed Garfield and Odie a full meal of people food under the table.

 _“Hmm, attentive service,”_ Garfield ponders. _“Excellent cuisine... However, the decor leaves something to be desired. I give this place two stars.”_

As they digest, Garfield and Grandma resume their snuggle session in the other room. Meanwhile, Jon and his parents gather around the piano for a poignant musical number, and the elderly woman confides in Garfield about the prior loss of her husband.

_“Since Grandpa passed on, I’ve whiled away many a lonely hour rocking and stroking my cats.”_

_“I envy those cats,”_ Garfield thinks aloud.

 _“Grandpa was a proud man, a strong man. He was a good provider… He always made something special for me and each of the children at Christmas. Men like him didn’t feel like they could show much affection outwardly to the children, but—on Christmas, it was okay.”_ She reminisces for a bit longer, her monologue concluding with, “ _Sometimes I wake up in the night, and I can feel his strong arms around me_.”

“Well, that took a turn,” Louis mumbles.

Harry bumps the back of his knuckles to Louis’ side, and Grandma sighs deeply onscreen. _“This is the night I miss him the most.”_

Gentle musical notes taper off, the song ending, and the show segues into another deliberately funny segment, this one even more ridiculous than those previous. Harry, however, can’t shake an abrupt melancholy. It’s not important anymore which one of them is most like Jon, or his cat, or the man in the fucking moon.

What _is_ important is that Louis is here, right beside him. They’re together during this season of celebration and giving, and Harry wants nothing more than to bestow upon him a heart brimming over with love. The heart galloping in Harry’s own chest, desperate to match rhythm with that of its mate.

“Louis,” Harry blurts, climbing onto him and straddling his hips, the sumptuous bedlinens a flimsy divider between them. “Don’t leave me, please.”

Baffled, his partner props himself up, palms flat on the bed behind him. “What are you on about?”

In lieu of an answer, Harry pitches forward, squishing Louis back onto the mattress. There he lies, completely still, the full weight of his body distributed along Louis’. Though it isn’t unbearable, it is perplexing.

“What’s the matter, love? Come on and tell me, don’t be a pussy.”

The vulgar slang—also a pun in this context—makes Harry guffaw, just as it did when they were years younger, and precisely as Louis knew it would again. But then Harry chokes on his unnamed emotion. Three minutes, fifty-six seconds, and one ear-violating song about elves later, he’s able to put form to the feeling. Harry’s words float down like feathers, but seem more like an anvil adding to the burden on Louis’ chest.

“I don’t want your arms to be a memory.”

“Wha—” Louis tries, but it’s mostly inaudible. He clears phlegm from his throat and says with steely conviction, “Never. You’ll never need worry about that, yeah?” Crossing his forearms behind Harry’s back, Louis locks him in a firm hold, limbs living fetters to bind him with a promise of forever. It’s one he’s made to Harry time and again with specific words, but this is evidently about Harry’s need to be totally enfolded in tender care, in comfort. Louis is happy to oblige.

When he rolls them on their sides, still joined chest to chest, neither young man gives any heed to the gift exchange playing out on the telly. Not until a mournful harmonica solo penetrates Louis’ consciousness, that is.

 _“Why thank you, Garfield,”_ he hears Grandma Arbuckle exclaim. _“What’s this?”_ Louis turns his head just enough to watch her untie a bow from a sheaf of old envelopes, and Harry follows the trajectory of his view.

_“Oh, my,”_ the old woman sighs in disbelief, and then reverently repeats, _“Oh, my.”_

_“What are they, Grandma?”_

_“Jon, these are love letters your grandpa sent me when we were courtin’ a long, long time ago.”_ With the imprecision of hand animation, she peers down at an unfolded piece of stationery and recites, _“‘My darling, if the sea were of ink and the sky of parchment, I could not begin to write my love for you.’”_ Grandma pauses for a fond giggle. _“‘When next we meet—'”_ She breaks off to laugh joyfully at the implied suggestiveness of the letter. _“Oh... Oh, my!”_

Louis feels Harry tense against him, waiting.

 _“Well, what does he say, Grandma?”_ the daughter-in-law presses cheekily, but she is immediately chided.

_“It is inappropriate for a lady to talk about her romances, my dear.”_

Grandma redirects her attention to the impudent tabby cat. _“Garfield, I don’t know how you managed to find these letters. I think they are the nicest presents I could have received. Thank you very, very much.”_

Predictably, the show closes with one ultimately inane scene and another foot-stomping tune. Pacified by the happy ending, Harry’s no longer upset. Sure, there were some serious moments, interspersed with misadventures involving gravy and Christmas ornaments, but overall, it was a hilariously compassionate look at family dynamics.

At last, playback has stopped, and the silence in the room becomes soothing. Louis’ face is sandwiched between a pillow and Harry’s cheek; he can hear Harry breathing against his temple, and it’s a profound language all its own.

“If the sea were of ink…” Harry whispers, because he doesn’t want to send rippling sound waves out to disturb the tentative peace in the haven of their room. He can’t stop thinking about that particular quotation. It’s suddenly important Louis comprehends the way it applies to their own relationship.

Louis unwinds his arms from Harry, the bottom one numb due to lack of circulation. Harry startles, head dropping without Louis’ support. It’s a soft landing, though, and the men are still exceedingly close. At first, Louis uncurls his hands to press both against Harry’s pectorals. Then he uses a fingertip and outlines one of the sparrows tattooed below a protruding collarbone. Trailing his touch lower, he smoothes the black butterfly that has permanently alighted on Harry’s belly. Finally, Louis withdraws his hand to invisibly underline the script spanning his own chest: “It is what it is.”

“If the sea were of ink, and—and _my body_ of parchment, I could not begin…” Louis trails off. He doesn’t remember the exact sequence of words, especially after his attempt to alter them.

Oh, but Harry does. He’s somehow imprinted the phrase on his mind and in his soul. “I could not begin to write my love for you.” One of them is crying, and Harry is pretty sure it’s him. “I mean, I’ll definitely run out of skin before I run out of things to say about you, Lou.”

And that’s all he needs to articulate, for the moment. They continue communicating with teary, pecking kisses, and, later, an intensified joining of mouths and tongues.

It certainly isn’t the lazy fuck Louis anticipated when he had put on the Christmas special. The way he’s taking Harry is focused and ardent. Their lovemaking is rarely like this anymore, maybe never has been.

“Will you—” Harry gasps through the plea. He’s face down, arse up, submitting completely to the man on top of him. “Will—”

“‘course, yeah. What, though, baby? Do you need to turn over?”

“No. I’m—I’m fine. It’s just…” When Louis slows his thrusts, Harry’s finally able to voice his question. “When will you get another tattoo … you know, to match one of mine .... do you think?”

Louis stokes in and out contemplatively, before stilling entirely. “How about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?” Harry’s tight laughter only increases the pressure to Louis’ questing dick. It draws from his chest a quick expulsion of breath, which Harry echoes when Louis grinds into him in retaliation. “But tomorrow we fly to Australia.”

“The next day, then,” the slightly older man vows in a guttural tone.

Harry reaches back to push at Louis. “Now can I—” He twists his upper body in demonstration, wanting to flip over and watch Louis’ face.

“Yeah.” Louis pulls out to allow Harry to turn, but he keeps his arms bracketing his lover. The next minute is awkward, as Harry manoeuvers his legs around Louis’ broad hips, reaching down to guide him back in where he belongs.

“What will it be? The tattoo, I mean,” asks Harry, voice becoming accidentally louder on the last word, as Louis gives a firm push to fully breach him.

They move together, and it’s fast and fiery. Louis knows the answer. Probably Harry knows too, but he wants to hear his suspicion, his _hope_ confirmed. He has a hand on each of Louis’ biceps, squeezing in encouragement and frank appreciation. Finally, Louis relents.

“The dagger,” he says on a sigh. Perilously close to orgasm, he’s blind to the signs that Harry is in the throes of his own. That is, until Louis senses a warm splash on his breastbone and a simultaneous throb around his cock. “Fuck!” Louis yells, and begins to come deeply in his partner. But Harry doesn’t necessarily like being filled, so he quickly withdraws, deciding to aim the rest of his release in the general direction of Harry’s crotch.

“No, come back,” Harry implores. This is a special occasion, after all. They’ve been waiting more than a year for the best time to complete their rose and dagger design.

Louis is sliding back in before he thinks to question, “You sure?” There’s no complaint, and after three more strong pulses, he’s done, staying locked inside a trembling Harry. Christ, Louis can’t help but feel proud, like he’s asserted a new claim on his internationally famous partner. Like Harry has _allowed_ him to, once again, and it still means something even after ages of coupledom.

“I love you, you know.” Harry’s a bit of sap. Also, he’s never been able to resist quipping, “All I want for Christmas is L—”

There’s no way Louis is letting the curly-haired bastard get _that_ past him this year. He quickly covers Harry’s face with a spare toss pillow. “I swear to god, Harry. I will smother you without hesitation.” Louis' promise is empty, of course, and he's not holding the cushion down with any force. Even so, it’s more than a few minutes before Louis trusts him not to finish the sentence, tentatively removing the pillow.

“AllIwantforChristmasisLou,” Harry blurts in a rush, blossoming satisfaction evident in a smile. He takes a deep breath to replenish his oxygen supply, afterwards crowing, “Ha!”

“Bloody hell,” curses Louis. Then he wonders in a raspy undertone, “How could I ever leave you? You’re mad to think of it.”

And it is absurd, really—both the idea of being parted, and the events of their late night. A made-up, cartoon, back-talking cat’s owner’s grandmother has brought their unity to a new and beautiful level, in only half an hour of song and satire.

On the other hand, it’s not so unbelievable. Because sometimes, all it takes to be content is the reminder that you already possess the thing you’ve wanted most.

***

Harry and Louis’ story has not yet been written in its entirety, but the telling of it temporarily ends here with several more of Garfield’s occasionally profound words. By the very end of the programme, after being immersed in familial love, the cynical character has changed his mind about the reason for the season.

 _“Christmas,”_ he declares, _“it’s not the giving, it’s not the getting, it’s the loving._

_“There, I said it. Now get outta here.”_

  



End file.
